


The End

by VickeyStar



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Could be a time travel fic, Daryl Dixon Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 00:10:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21065507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VickeyStar/pseuds/VickeyStar
Summary: His old muscles ache as he runs, he can feel his bones creaking with age as he jumps over logs and weeds.





	The End

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so.   
We mentioned this before, and it's already 83 pages long and they've only just reached the prison.   
If you guys want us to post the timetravel part, we can, but it'll take a while. It will take a long while.   
We're posting this bit because why not.   
Also if you have a better title suggestion please do tell.   
Enjoy!   
~SleevesCakes/VickeyStar

Beth never realized exactly how right she was.

Daryl refuses to turn around, refuses to stop running, ignoring the screams of the damned and the instinct to turn around, make his way back to shelter, grab his crossbow and fight for his people.

His old muscles ache as he runs, he can feel his bones creaking with age as he jumps over logs and weeds.

He hears Michonne’s sword, swinging at the walkers’ heads as she shouts in panic.

He hears Carol, firing her rifle and trying to save the kids of their current group.

He hears them both fall.

He doesn’t stop running.

Daryl didn’t expect Alpha to actually go through on her threat, the walker army swarming their camp after a couple of kids crossed the border.

Fucking _kids_.

He managed to turn the monsters back on her, though, and he can still feel her eyes on his as the undead army she had built quite literally bit the hand that fed it.

He knows he’s the only one left.

He doesn’t stop running.

~*~

The cities are empty, now.

All the monsters that weren’t trapped in rooms left, somehow instinctively joining the giant herd.

He hopes they fall into the Grand Canyon.

He scavenges, not finding much but expired twinkies, hunting where nature has reclaimed the land.

He catches two squirrels, a male and a female, keeping them alive as well as he can just in case.

He’d change his name to Noah, but there’s no one around to care.

~*~

He finds some seeds, starts a garden in a window planter.

It’s small, and he’ll probably need to move from the abandoned apartment he picked, the floor’s one creak from falling through and the building easily sways in the wind.

He packs his bags a month after, fresh fruit in a small bag and the trained squirrels on his shoulders as the apartment building collapses behind him.

~*~

He doesn’t realize he’s in Atlanta until he is.

He walks past the shop where they went to find Merle, remembers clearing it and smelling the walker behind the counter.

He doesn’t bother entering it, knowing there’s nothing to scavenge.

~*~

The hospital isn’t overrun, but the cops and doctor are nowhere to be seen.

Bloodstains paint the walls, the basement now empty of anything, living or dead.

He clears off the sun panels on the roof, taming the wild garden that had formed over years of no upkeep.

He doesn’t stay there long, either, just gathering more fresh fruit and getting a truck before moving on.

~*~

He continues south, stopping at a dock on the border to what used to be Mexico.

There’s a single boat there, big enough to fit plenty of shit, and he thinks.

_What if._

The dead army is behind him, heading the same way he is.

He could just… get in the boat. Sail away. He’s got the supplies for it, for sure.

But.

His breath leaves him as he remembers their faces, mind kind enough to focus on the memories of them smiling.

China had a big population, anyways. He can’t imagine there being any survivors in Asia.

~*~

He doesn’t go to Mexico, either.

~*~   
He heads to Rick’s hometown.

He doesn’t want to go to his own, and knows the farm’s out of the question.

He doesn’t go anywhere that he has memories with them.

He’s bicycling along, the small family of squirrels sleeping in the basket as he rides, when he sees it.

It’s a goddamn fortress.

Wooden spikes covered with walker blood, trip and barbed wires set up everywhere. He can see at least five guns, ready to fire.

No people, though.

“Huh.”

~*~

He isn’t expecting the axe.

It’s dumb, he knows, he’s smarter than that, but it’s been years since he’s actually rested, and his hair has gone grey.

He ducks, the axe grazing his shoulder, a pained hiss leaving his lips.

His hand comes up to his shoulder, other one cupping the baby squirrels to his chest as their mother chitters by his cheek from his other shoulder, and—

Oh.

Oh, no.

He doesn’t want to turn around, but he does.

He tries to shield the squirrels’ view, some last bit of humanity as tears fill his eyes.

The male squirrel he’d caught oh-so-long-ago is laying on the base of the stairs, not moving.

Daryl waits a beat, the squirrels oddly silent, and then watches in surprise as Papa Squirrel gets up.

He takes a breath of relief, Mama Squirrel jumping off of his other shoulder to go to the other squirrel’s side.

Daryl puts the baby squirrels down as he goes to check himself, seeing their father is just fine.

“You jumped off my shoulder.” He says with pride, Papa Squirrel letting him pick him up.

“Good boy.”

~*~   
He starts another garden, somehow never running out of seeds.

He wrangles a few horses, building a place for them in a safe area on the ground.

They’re wild, kicking and dirty, but he manages to settle them down with a bath and a couple carrots, once they’ve grown.

He fortifies the defenses around the building, trying to prepare for the end.

Because there’s no way in this hell that the dead army isn’t on its way.

Eventually, it will come.

And he knows, bones creaking and muscles aching, watching the third generation of Squirrel and second generation of Horse come into this world.

He won’t be ready.

~*~

The squirrels wake him up, their chittering audible in the silence of night.

_Well_, he thinks, hearing the moans outside. _Took you long enough. _

He looks out the window to see a sea of corpses, the odor hitting his nose even through the closed window.

But they aren’t moving.

He frowns, watching one try to get up, but collapse as its arms break beyond saving.

He watches the army of the dead try to move, rotted to the point of bone decomposition.

He laughs.

He really is the last man standing.

~*~

The next morning, he takes a couple knives and kills every one he can reach.

The next day he continues, on and on for what feels like eternity, until they’re all dead twice over.

As he settles down after returning home from killing the last of the army, he feels it.

His breathing slows as he just sits and _feels_ it.

All living generations of squirrels surround him, somehow knowing it too.

He pets every last one of them, one last time.

Then he pulls out his dagger, and doesn’t think twice about shoving it between his own eyes.

~*~

He shoots up, sitting straight as water is splashed onto his face.

His first thought goes to the waste of water, how it’s an important asset that whoever tossed it onto him shouldn’t’ve wasted.

His second thought, is as follows.

_What the fuck?_

His hand goes to his forehead, feeling for a wound that isn’t there as he looks around.

“Get up, little brother. I’m going into town.”

His eyes go wide as they focus on his brother, standing in front of him.

“Yeah.” He mutters, distractedly looking around the tent. He sees his crossbow, looking much better than the last time he saw it, and hears voices outside the tent.

Merle huffs before leaving the tent, Daryl able to catch glimpses of Carol, Andrea, Amy, and Shane over by the RV.

_Again: What the fuck?_ He thinks, brushing his hand over his face.

He stands, grabbing his crossbow and winged vest, slinging both over his shoulders.

_Sure,_ he thinks. _If the dead are walking, why not involve time travel in this shit? _

He leaves the tent, seeing Lori and Shane talking.

_Hoo, boy. _


End file.
